


Heavy

by Virus



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Spoilers, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virus/pseuds/Virus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He realizes he will never see his father again. </p>
<p>General spoilers for anything past ch100.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy

It's been three years. 

Death the Kid is no longer a "kid", and his father is long gone. He watches over the DWMA and the city. He watches over Maka and Soul (who has successfully become a Death Scythe) and his past friends. 

They don't talk much now — his old friends and him. He doesn't have time. He doesn't want to talk to them. He doesn't want to face them. He doesn't want to confirm it. He doesn't want to look them in the eyes and say, "Yes, he's gone," because that would be admitting defeat. 

Kid still writes the sacred numbers on every reflective surface in his home, which is far less than it used to be: He's limited himself to one mirror, with the numbers painted on. 

A desperate call, but he only hears the dial tone. 

Everything else, every reflective surface, every mirror and window and screen, has been blocked out. If he can't see in it, then he can't say for certain he's gone, right? 

Liz and Patty worry for him. 

When he's at the DWMA, he stands in front of the giant mirror. Students and faculty call him all through the day. He doesn't mind. 

His chest hurts, though, by the end of it. He doesn't know why — he has no physical ailment that he can think of, nothing would harm this _shinigami_ body. But his chest hurts and all he can think of is that it was his fault. 

He stands in front of the mirror, pulling out a dry erase marker. Death the Kid prints very neatly. 

_42-42-564_

He caps the marker and waits. He waits. And waits. And waits. And waits. And waits. 

This is his daily ritual. It has been the same for the past three years. It never works. 

His chest hurts. He doesn't know why. It's his fault. Three years. 

He's tired. He's tired of it all now. He falls to the ground, on his knees. He clutches at his middle, doubling over and sobbing so hard for the first time in three years that he throws up. He thinks to himself that he's glad his father isn't here to see him like this. He throws up more, cries harder. 

It's his fault. His chest hurts. 

Sniffling back some snot, coughing and wobbling and nearly falling over, he's a mess. His chest hurts four times worse, and his fingers are digging into his sides. His chest hurts. His chest hurts. His chest hurts, and his eyes hurt. His knees hurt from the fall. He blinks to clear his eyes but they hurt. They're no longer a deep golden color; they're a lifeless, joyless, dull brown. His chest hurts and his eyes hurt. 

He jolts from his stupor when he hears a soft creak behind him. Everyone knows he performs this ritual every day at the same time. Everyone knows not to bother him. Even Black☆Star refrains from bothering him. 

His chest hurts, especially when he hears another creak and turns around. Nothing is there. Now his chest hurts because the hope imploded on itself. 

Trembling, still gripping his middle, he stands. No one but himself is there. He's alone. 

Alone, and his chest hurts. 

As he wipes the marker from the mirror, as he cleans up his own vomit, he cries more. When everything is clean, he feels numb. There is a weight on his shoulders, and although it's warm, it reminds him too much of his father, and he dislikes it. He doesn't dwell on the feeling, though. He snaps his fingers and heads back to his home for the night. The feeling follows him and warms him up from the inside gradually. It's fraternal, and once he realizes, he cries a little more in his bed. 

His chest no longer hurts.


End file.
